What they call fate -or karma-
by Ottereight
Summary: Hermann Einstein thought he could live a happy life now that Jonathan Brewster is in jail. But don't count your chickens before they're hatched, doctor ! And don't count your psychopaths too early neither. You may have more than one on your trail soon...
1. Psychopaths of Brooklyn

It's almost one in the morning when I enter the bar, my case of surgical tools against me and three grams of alcohol by liter in the blood.

Indeed, sadly, my schnapps bottle found itself empty before I could reach the alcoholic coma. Slightly reeling like a ship in the midst of a storm, I collapse on the counter then order with a slow voice a glass of whiskey.

Because _for god's sake _with the last 24 hours events I really do deserve some rest.

The barman seems a bit reluctant first to serve another glass to someone in the state I am in. But oddly, I barely have the time to utter a few words that he hurry to get me a glass. He must have liked my voice. Unconsciously I half-make a smile and he accelerate even more.

« Johnny... » I whisper when the glass arrive in front on me. Five years since I started living in his shadow, and even if each second I dreamed of running away as far as possible from him, his presence next to me became somehow customary. We slept at the hotel, he killed people, we hid the body, I redid his face when his portrait was diffused in the whole country and he threatened me of a slow and painful death every time something went wrong. This routine was very unpleasant, and yet it started to be a part of the normal course of events, and now it was broken I found myself helpless.

Things as simple as housing or food seemed insuperable to me. The murders and thefts Jonathan carried out may have been questionable in terms of the law but it was what allowed us – what allowed _me –_ to eat and sleep. The bare idea of an honest life didn't cross my head. Not since I arrived in the United States and above all since I met Jonathan. Jonathan wasn't a... a complex person. You were with him or against him gifted or stupid someone to help or someone to eliminate (nevertheless there were just a few people in the first category and almost the entire world in the second one.)

Five years, then.Five years crossing every country in the world looking for a place where Jonathan didn't have a price on his head. Then a few weeks of peace, before the police traced back the « killer that looks like Boris Karloff », and before my partner choses between leaving the country or changing his face again. I always feared the moment where I had to operate Jonathan. I already evoked the binary side of his personality ; another aspect was that he wasn't very tolerant. When I misplaced my surgical case in a bar while the police was chasing us and that I had to fix his face as soon as possible, he made me pay. When I had been a bit too much ready-tongued while a police informer was standing behind us, he made me pay. When I rebuilt by mistake his face just like Karloff's he made me pay. A high price. During many days. Because there is a third thing you have to know about Jonathan, it's that, when he really wants to, he learns fast. Very fast.

As regards some of the most precises elements of the human body's resistance to pain, I think I was, against my will, a very good professor. If he finds me again... He doesn't really need a reason to make someone suffer. The bare idea that I didn't help him escape, or that the food was poor at the jail's canteen – he could kill me.

While my hand is still holding tight a glass I didn't even touch yet, my eyes linger unconsciously on the three first fingers, where badly healed wounds were still noticeable, bringing with them the memory of their pain.

Barely five seconds later the whole of my glass run into my throat and diffuse in my blood.

The glass is now empty in my hand and I feel I have a lot of trouble staying awake. I observe the few clients of the bar, my field of vision slightly blurred. There is a couple, at the back of the bar, actively talking around the remains of a meal. A dandy, more or less forty, is doing a little solitaire game with a satisfied look on his face. A kid of almost sixteen years old is sleeping somewhere holding an empty glass. And two or three hobos are sleeping their beer off on the bar.

None of them looks like a psychopath and sadistic murderer.

Maybe I'll enjoy my first peaceful night since... I can't even remember. A night without a recidivist killer with a butchered face in my hotel room... A night without the police siren interrupting my sleep... A night without asking myself what the hell I am doing here and without looking for a thousand ways to escape.

Behind the bar's pane three police cars turn up suddenly, their headlight turned on and their sirens screaming in the dark calm of the night.

I start on my chair, the alcohol dispelling almost entirely in my veins and giving way to sheer fear. They're coming for me. They finally realized the description matched. I need to leave this place, right now, but I can't, they're at the door. Johnny must have told them, no, he would never do that, so why are them in front of the bar door, they will come in, they will get me, they-

A few seconds later, the three police cars have passed in front of the bar without stopping and they make their way peacefully through Brooklyn.

At first incredulous, I finally manage to catch my breath. This night, they didn't come for me. But with the description of me they have, it won't be long before they locate me. I am starting to considerate the idea of butchering my own face. I have « succeeded » a countless numbers of operations on Jonathan, why would it be different on me ? I just have to work with a mirror and I can do it. I am already starting to draw up a plan of the new face I'll give to me when someone knock on my shoulder.

A pair of cobalt eyes are staring at me, half covered by tuft of brown hair. It is slightly graying at the temples but in a very elegant way. His face is shapely, slightly hollow but smooth and he strangely remind me someone I knew though I can't get my hand on it.

The dose of alcohol in my blood must be higher than the dose of blood itself.

It's the dandy I saw shortly before and that just finished his solitaire game. He's holding in his right hand a stained and crumpled card deck, and with his left hand he's still poking me with a huge smile. He orders another drink to the barman that brings it to me as fast as the first one.

He holds out his hand that I shake without really noticing it. He's talking, too or at least I think so. He gives me another drink but I can't raise my arms. My eyes are drawn by a little detail,a newspaper clipping sticking out from his jacket's pocket. It is folded so well that I am unable to read what's written on it – and anyway I am so much intoxicated that I could barely decipher a text plastered on my face. He gives me a small plastic package very light to touch and he closes my fingers on it. I don't understand anything anymore. My brain is working in slow motion. I sway once, and he holds me then I sway a second time and this time he doesn't hold me back.

He stares at me and he smiles.

The light is coming inside my shut eyelids as if it was an improperly closed window. It hurts. My eyes, first, and my shoulder too. And my head hurts _so badly. _Sort of all this light was weighting tons on my skull. I had some painful hangovers, the day after important surgeries or particularly impressive torture sessions. But I think I've never wanted _so much _to get back to sleep for as much time as possible.

Obviously, my neighbor to the right doesn't agree with it.

« Shh, let me sleep, Johnny » I whisper while ignoring the punches I earn on my right shoulder. My partner often awakes me in, let's say, a rather brutal way. I usually have the time to wake up before he starts using means of persuasion _far _more violent.

But today I feel a fist strike my cheek and send me to the ground in one movement.

My first thought is that the tiled floor is cold. And hard. It's not the carpet of the kind of motels Johnny usually chooses. I rise a tired eyes toward the ceiling and they meet bars. Bars at the windows... And it's not Johnny's way of punching either. This one is way more intuitive and also way more powerful. I rise my head painfully, blood running from the arch of my eyebrows.

The man that just sent me on the ground is a huge, huge guy. Far bigger than me. Far bigger than anyone. He clenches his fist slightly painted with blood, and goes to sit down on the bench seat I just freed by falling down. He's tall, he's terrifying, but worst of all : I don't know him.

I've never seen him in my whole life.

My heart starts beating faster. He's not alone in the room there are also two other guys, slim and patched-up, sitting silently on the bench seat – in fact it's just an horizontal metal plate stuck against the wall, barely allowing two adult men to sit down –, both of them looking downcast. The last day's memories are slowly coming down by pieces, like a giant puzzle. Jonathan in jail. The alcohol. The bar. The dandy. The kid. The alcohol. The police cars. The alcohol. The dandy. The alcohol and... blackout.

The three words « Jonathan in jail » dance in my head until I understand why.

I _am _in jail.

I stand up unsteadily, as fast as my little height and my hangover allow me. Bars at the window. Bars at the door. The huge guy. The metal bench seat. The tiled floor. Everything makes sense. Everything but... what happened between yesterday night and my arrival here. What if... What if Johnny was here ? What if he saw me ? I need to escape, now – but I just need to catch the bars and I understand it's impossible. I will stay here. But I must –

« Calm down, junky, » say one of the two skinnies in the corner with a drawling voice. « Panicking won't help you out of this place. »

My hands start shaking with the combined impact of pressure and fear. I need a drink. Now. For my nerves. I'm a very nervous person and I've always been one, but it didn't went better after five years with a sadistic psychopath as exclusive company.

Seeing my terrified look, the guy keeps going. « They brought you here last night with a good pack of coke in your pocket. Really, you mustn't be the clever type to stroll around with such a huge amount on hands. There was a guy with you, the type that looks very neat, very clean, without a single arrest, but with loads of troubles behind it. Beware if you meet him again, 't must be him that grassed you on. »

I barely listen his speech, obsessed by a single idea, that I manage to utter without stuttering to much : « I- I need to get out from here. »

The two guys look at each other and burst in an overwhelming laughter.

« So do we, buddy ! But it won't be any time soon. For coke traffic, you may rot here for a long time. You better start making friends. First of all, don't annoy Dan, he's not the amusing type."

He points out with his chin the guy that threw me on the ground and that now seems to be sleeping a light sleep.

"No... I really need to get out of here... Or he will... he..."

My hands twist against each other and my huge eyes look frenetically for any way out around me.

"You'd better get used to it, buddy. It's off to a bad start."

Just when I was about to do a nervous breakdown, I hear the guard's voice shouting : "Hey you ! The trafficker !"

I turn around without really knowing if it's a good idea or not.

"Someone out here wants to see you."

I freeze. My whole being screams that I shouldn't go there. I already see Jonathan's shrill eyes staring at me with that murderous gleam that shines every time he's about to–

But the guard is already opening the door and pushing me outside, because I'm so much paralyzed by fear and tiredness that I am unable to offer any resistance to him.

My eyes hesitate between closing as hard as I could so the reality would disappear too, or widening more than ever in order to look for a loophole. They don't have the time do decide that the guard is already dropping me on a chair at the visiting room, where someone, on the other side of the railings, is waiting for me.

I look at him with terror.

It's the dandy from last night.

"Dr. Einstein" he says by showing a shining smile and putting back black flyaway locks behind his ears.

I've never been that parted between anxiety and relief of all my life.

"You shall excuse me for what happened last night. The drug, the drink, the jail... I hope you don't hold it against me."

"Who-who-who-who are you ? What do you want from me ?" I stammer.

"Don't be too impatient, dear doctor. _The best is yet to come. _We well see each other tonight at the bar you were in yesterday. I'll wait for you somewhere around midnight. Agree ?"

I barely have the time to explain him that going out in the present conditions may be a bit complicated that he's already gone and the guard is already taking me back to my cell.

The wait until dawn may probably be the longest of my life. I spend all day huddled up in a corner of the cell, waiting, thinking, trying to make the link between that mysterious man, Johnny's recent arrest, my headache stronger than ever and my presence in jail. There isn't any. Any that my exhausted brain could find, anyway. The three other members of my cell watch me whispering evaporated reasonings, staring into the distance. I can't really recall what language I spoke. Maybe the German of my childhood, or the Polish I studied in Heidelburg, or any of the other languages I learned during my youth all over Europe. I can only tell it wasn't English.

The only indications that allow me to measure time are the guard's talks and their comments about the meals. I realize it's past 3 P.M when they bring us a half-empty kit and I notice how hungry I am ; a couple of centuries later, I understand it's almost 8 P.M when our two guards go to look for some snack at the jail's stewardship. It looks like the two skinnies in the corner can't bear hunger as well as I do. After twenty years wandering on the Eastern roads, once I got my Heidelburg diploma, I had enough time to accustom my stomach to very limited quantities. Indeed no quantities at all.

That's partly for that reason that I emigrated to United States seven years ago... And also because a mustached dictator jeopardized my security. I didn't have any family. Not to my recollection. I don't remember ever having a father, and I didn't saw my mother since I left for Heidelburg with the few pocket money I earned as a notary in my home town. As for my brothers and sisters... I couldn't even recall the correct number.

Of course, all of the plans I had for my future were quite compromised when I first met Jonathan Brewster.

As I didn't have a watch, I couldn't calculate the exact hour ; but it's more or less thirty past eight when the guard opens the cell's door and summons me again. This time with a way softer voice. Almost respectful. I stand up, driven frantic by tiredness and unsuccessful thoughts ; he guides me with some sort of kindness to the visiting room, for the second time of the day.

Expect that this this time no mannered dandy waits for me outside.

The guard simply opens the door and say with a neutral voice "You're free, Mr. Hodgkins. Forgive us for this miscarriage of justice, it won't happen again."

I rise a finger in an attempt to shed light on the current situation, but before I could ask any question, the jail's door closes right behind me.

I'm now free, a few dollars to my name, without any alcohol bottle I could get my hands on, and more lost than ever.


	2. Top-level meeting

When I finally manage to find the bar again by superhuman memory efforts, I see the dandy waiting for me, at the counter, perfectly dressed, and looking almost pleased to see me. I sit down, a bit stumped, at the seat left empty next to him. As I'm about to order a drink, he holds my arm back with a vast smile.

"I need your full attention, Dr. Einstein."

In the storm of questions that jostle inside my head it's the one I choose to ask.

"How-how come you know my name ?" I add a few seconds later with an alarmed voice : "Are you from the police ? Please don't take m-"

He bursts in laughter and gently pats my shoulder.

"Not at all, not at all, dear doctor. But I realize that we haven't been introduced yet. My name is..."

He casts a glance around him but all the clients of the bar are talking at a high enough level of decibels to cover his voice.

"Terrence Jones, at your service. I mean, not literally, but it's an expression."

I am far too abashed to find anything clever to reply.

"Once again I must ask you to forgive me for entrusting you with this pack of drugs and for giving you up to the police last night. It was all a part of my plan, do you understand ? I must reassure you, this time you aren't at risk. And if you've asked yourself why they let you out, I simply brought one of those drunkards here-

He points with a large gesture one of the guys sleeping on the counter.

"-while explaining that it was their stock of drugs and not yours. I must confess it was easier than I thought. They are much more credible criminals than you are. And, I don't know why, but people tend to trust me really easily."

I quickly inspect his clothes. He's wearing a perfectly ironed suit, of a slightly grey black, and a pair of shoes so polished that one could easily see his reflection in them. Unlike the night before his hair has been put in an elegant side part and covered by a hat. I dream with a bit of bitterness of someone so well-dressed and elegant that the police would take everything he says for granted. Jonathan had other way of persuading people, but... Even if it was sort of my fault (and he liked to remind me of it) he didn't really inspire confidence.

"You may ask yourself why I drugged your drink before entrusting you to the police and then giving you back your freedom the day after. You see, doctor, ever since the notion of power started to exist in the realms of men, the people that have that power have always ensured, all the time, that everyone is aware of how incredibly powerful they are. Because it's the only way for them to protect their power without a war, that would precisely make them risk losing his power. This is fear, doctor. He who possesses power must know that fear will always be his strongest weapon. That's exactly what I wanted to prove to you."

I raise my eyebrow a bit. Whoever this dandy is, he sure is a character.

"Never heard of me ?" he says with a little look of disappointment. "Jones... The serial killer... "The Jack the Ripper of Brooklyn"... No ?"

Even if deep down I know that it's a terribly bad idea I shake my head – I can't remember having heard anything about him before.

"Ah... Such a pity. I thought I had managed to have a little reputation in town... Barman ! Two whiskeys, please. Take this, doctor, drink. After all, I know that you need it to pull yourself together. You see, I aim for fame, as every decent artist... I, too, would like to make the headlines with more squalid and sadistic murders than this town has ever seen..."

I nod, not really paying attention, focusing more on my drink and the oblivion that it can potentially offer me – I've rarely needed it that much.

"That's why I need you, doctor."

I choke on my mouthful and start coughing violently. I should have known this would happen... I should have known that it wouldn't take long before my past catches up with me. But a day, still... It's far less than my crazier predictions. I was hoping for a week of peacefulness at least before seeing the color of blood again.

Jones looks almost surprised at my reluctance.

"It doesn't entice you ? But you were with Jonathan Brewster before, weren't you ? That's why I chose you, doctor. I know you have quite a lot of experience and knowledge in this field.

"Jo-Jonathan ? What Jonathan ? I-I don't know at-at-at all what you're talking about" I stutter while giving a faint smile, betrayed by my pleading eyes.

Jones takes out the news clipping that had caught my gaze last night ; an article patiently cut out of the New York Times that says "Jonathan "Karloff" Brewster wreaks havoc in jail (again)"

A shiver runs through my body and my vision is blurred for a few seconds. Satisfied of his effect Jones leaves the article in front of my eyes a few seconds more before putting it back, precisely folded, in his pocket.

"It's time for you to make a choice, Dr. Einstein" he whispers with his calm voice. "At every moment I can send you back to jail so you can again meet your former partner – I'm sure he will be really happy to see you again. How much time do you get for drug traffic, more or less ? If I charge you with proofs of your complicity with Jonathan, you may never get out of there. That'd be stupid, wouldn't it ?"

He reaches into his pocket and takes out very discreetly a perfectly sharpened kitchen knife.

"This is my hunting weapon. I don't think that I need to explain you how I patiently killed and mutilated each and every one of my victims. That'd be spoiling all the suspense. You'll find out soon enough."

His smile, that I first thought gentle, has become predatory in a few seconds. He watches me with the look of a hungry lion who has trapped his prey inescapably and is simply enjoying the view.

"I need you, Dr. Einstein. But not need in the sense that I couldn't kill without you. I already have a quite precious thing that helps me in this field – I'd rather not tell you more about it for now. Not need in the sense that I couldn't allow myself to kill you if I wanted to."

The blade of his knife gets threateningly closer, still hidden to everyone by his coat.

"But let's say that I seek revenge. And with you I can have it twice. You see, I am a writer. Deep into my soul, I've always been. I lived with Shakespeare and Byron, and... they gave me a few ideas. What if... What if I started writing too ? I wasn't more stupid than they were. So that's what I did, with all my soul, during five years. It was- It was a masterpiece ! A marvelous play. My editor had accepted it for publishing, and I was waiting for a huge success. A success as fantastic as this play that... that... You should have read it, doctor !"

I lightly squirm on my seat. I still don't have a clue about his point.

"And the day before it was published... I had accepted that a literary critic wrote an article about it. My god, I was so sure of my success ! I had given him carte blanche. And..."

Terrence Jones' gaze turns dark and he suddenly stabs me in the hand.

"Its success wasn't up to its worth."

I hold back a scream, choked by the fear that someone could notice us. When he takes his knife out of the flesh, there is a small wound, a few millimeters deep. Thank God, it's only shallow. Between two internal screams, I notice that he's as dexterous as he claims to be. His blow was flawless, perfectly perpendicular. He has a surgical precision in the way he handles his knife – and that may be what terrifies me the most.

"Calm down, doctor," growls Jones, brushing off the blood that stains the knife with his thumb. "Brewster has surely done much worse to you." As I keep holding my bleeding hand, he sighs; "You're not really cooperative. So, where were we ? Ah yes. So, it didn't really go as I planned. This critic... He wrote the worst article ever on my play. He dragged it through the mire, called it a parody , a ridiculous pastiche, an unctuous romance. I was furious. You see doctor, when you're a genius as I am, you can be... what is the word... touchy. I am very sensitive, doctor. I don't like when people upset me."

Thoughtful, he keeps brushing off the blood with his fingertips, a dreamy look in the eyes. The pain ceases slowly and the blood stops flooding from the wound little by little.

"So, I thought for a bit. I told myself "Terrence," (Terrence, it's me, if you had forgotten) "Terrence, so, you have to give your play the recognition it deserves. And for that, you need positive articles. And how do you obtain positive articles ?"

As the pain flows back, there's more room in my thoughts to think about my current situation. Everything gradually links up and I understand his point one second before he tells me about it with a big smile. Johnny's brother, he was-

"You're a clever man, doctor Einstein. You must have reached the same conclusion as I did : I simply had to eliminate as cruelly as possible each and every person that had anything to say about my play ! And that revolting and self-satisfied critic was first on my list. I did some research. How surprised I was when I discovered that he was the brother of this sadistic murderer everyone was looking for ! Bad taste is a family business. Then I-"

I didn't realize how much of a stupid idea it was to interrupt him, or at least not before I started talking, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence.

"Mr-Mr Jones, if you want to use me to.. to find Mortimer... It's not a good idea, you know... I only know him a little – even less than that... Johnny talked a bit about him, that's all, and you know, I won't be able to help you... I-I am very nervous, and..."

Jones gives a faint smile and tightens his hold on the knife.

"Doctor, you don't really understand what's at stake here. I already told you that I can send you into Jonathan's cell with a snap of the fingers. But if meeting again with your former partner doesn't scare you, I have other means of persuasion.

In a flash, he grabs my wrist to prevent me from doing any gesture of the hand. Then, with a small gleam of pleasure in his eyes, he drags the knife's blade on the surface of the cut, lightly twisting the knife in the wound. My throat tightens to the point where I can barely breathe.

"I don't have the knowledge of a doctor in medicine in this field, but I still fancy myself to know a bit more than average, doctor. Don't play with fire. Help me find Mortimer Brewster – and help me make him pay."


End file.
